of Emma’s neck, pulling her more closely to her. Indeed, she needed to feel the soft curve of breasts against hers to know she did well. Heat spread through her limbs and Grace’s nipples pebbled into puckered peaks. Oh, she forgot how good this felt.
She slid her tongue out and pushed it into Emma’s mouth. Yes, this was what she needed to feel…desire…. to be the sensual woman once again.
She opened her eyes and glanced in Winston’s direction. He stood no more than two feet from her, glaring down at her and Emma. Her body tensed and her gaze darted to Markus.
His smile reassured her, all was well, that she needed this. Just because Oscar was gone, the woman she had become had not died with him. Tonight would prove that.
Winston didn’t say a word but towered over them, his heat mixing with theirs. His smell, the same crisp smell of the sea she always associated with him. Grace sighed deep in her heart. She had not realized how much she had missed him. Winston was home.
What the devil was Lady Wentland doing here? Grace! Every fiber of his being screamed for him to grab her by the arm, drag her from this ballroom, and spank her bottom for the scandalous behavior she exhibited. Indeed, yes, a spank to her bottom. Several quick, sharp slaps with his hand so her bottom was red and his hand stung. Or with a birch—even better. He smiled, then frowned.
No, Winston, don’t even think it!
She was a true English lady, yet her actions screamed this act had happened for years. He swallowed the lump lodged in his throat and glared at them. Her lips pressed and nipped at Emma’s.
Emma!
Lady Grace stood in the middle of the ballroom, kissing the most expensive courtesan in London!
Blood rushed through his ears, blocking all rational thought, and his fingers fisted. Grace’s hands slid down Emma’s back to her waist and fluttered there.
He held in a moan at the way she moved. So sensual, so graceful, so feminine. His Grace had grown into a sensual woman. No! What the hell was he thinking? Images of her as the innocent Grace, her brother, and Winston talking about every subject they could think of, including the act, came to him. Her brother, his best friend, would lock Grace in the attic if he knew she was here. Winston cringed—if her brother knew he was here watching her, Winston would be challenged to a duel at dawn. Blast and damn. This was not what he had expected when he agreed to stay in this house.
Grace’s fingers pinched Emma’s nipple.
His cock grew noticeably heavy. With teeth clenched tight, he glanced around the room. Damn it. Not the reaction he was hoping for as he watched her flirt and tease.
His gaze continued to assess the room. He needed to focus on anything but watching her tease. How many of the men in this room watched her? How many knew who she was? Most—if not all—of the men in the room watched them. Ice slid through his veins and his short nails dug into his palms as a wave of possession captured his mind and body.
He needed to get her from here, and then erase this image of her from his mind forever. Quite so…she was Lady Wentland. His Grace! The pure lady she was raised to be, and as soon as he removed her from this—this event—he would recapture that image of her. Her innocent ladylike teasing as a fresh debut—that was the image he wanted to retain in his mind.
He stepped forward and reached out toward her left hand, which gripped Emma’s hip. What the hell are you doing? His hand shook, but he couldn’t stop it. His finger traced the line of Grace’s middle and index finger. Bubbles of sensation tingled up the tip of his finger and constricted his lungs.
Grace moaned and her passion-filled eyes slit slightly open, catching him standing only inches from Emma’s back. Her hand slid away from his touch and down to the top of Emma’s thigh. Emma rocked her body toward Grace, pinning her hand between their bodies.
A lump lodged in Winston’s throat and he clenched his teeth tighter. His finger traced Grace’s other hand and pulled her finger from Emma’s body. The heat of them wet the tips of his fingers as the soft and slender length of Grace’s finger rubbed, circling his knuckles, then retreated to grip Emma once again.
He slowly lowered his hand. She kissed this woman and teased him. He should walk away. He should drag her from this room and out into the hallway and talk some sense into her. She…she should not be here. His brow knit tight. She was utterly captivating. If he had not known her from childhood, Grace’s actions this night fit precisely what he looked for in this house.
Damn it all!
He wanted her in his bed. In all his years in India, he never dreamed about the act of sin with Grace. Long talks with Grace, yes. Teasing her…taunting her…futtering her until she was spent and lifeless—that was a thought he had restricted to the parlors of the Indian dens, where they knew his tastes, because he had discovered them there. He never considered a blooded high-born English lady would possess the skills he wished to nurture. It was Grace.
He should turn right now and walk away. He could not touch her. India represented a lifetime of experience for him. Maybe all this time had also ripened his friends, who had developed a taste for the act that was different as well.
Emma slid her hands up to Grace’s face. Her fingers slid into her hair, and in one move, her other hand slid back and lightly slapped her.
Winston’s eyes widened. What was going on here?
Grace moaned, leaned in, and kissed Emma’s cheek. Her tongue slid out and she licked a trail to Emma’s ear.
Winston’s feet would not move. He shook his head and tried to clear the image from his mind. Emma slapped Grace, and Grace moaned. Grace likes to be slapped. Grace liked this kind of teasing and was doing it for him. The blood in his veins rushed south. No, no, no. This is Grace.
Winston closed the distance between them, wrapped his hand around Grace’s bicep, and pulled her from Emma.
“What are you doing, Grace? You do not belong here.” His voice came out harsh.
Grace stared up at him; anger, arousal, and tears shone back. She pulled and yanked on her arm as she tried to dislodge Winston’s grip.
“Grace, dear, are you well with him?” Emma’s firm tone slid through his fog.
“Let go of me, Winston.” Grace twisted her arm in his grip, trying to dislodge his fingers.
“She is fine, Emma.” Winston held his grip on Grace’s arm and turned from Emma. Grace didn’t resist as he pushed through the crowd, dragging her with him. Her slippered feet scuffed along the wood floor. They reached the edge of the ballroom.
“Winston, let go of me.” Her voice was a meager whisper.
“Not until we talk, Grace.” His mind spun. He wanted her to leave this place, and at the same time, he wanted to bed her.
“Let go of me.”
He reached the hallway and spun her about. Her slippered feet scuffed on the floor as he pressed her firmly up against the wood-paneled wall in the entrance.
“What in the devil’s sake were you doing in there, Grace?” His voice shook as he stared down into her upturned face. “Have you no idea who these people are?” He pushed a palm against
